


To Have And To Hold

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Infidelity, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1286836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for prompt: "can u do an arranged marriage au?? jim's in an arranged marriage w/ john and Sherlock w/ Seb. But they're Seb's secretly screwing Jim and John with Sherlock?? Kink: idk how to articulate it, but, possessive sex? e.g. "even though you're married to ___ you're mine, I'll kill anyone who so much as looks at you?' "</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Have And To Hold

Jim pushed him down on the bed the second the hotelroom door was closed, pouncing on him and tearing at his clothes like he was having a fit.

Only when they were both naked, the offending clothing a messy pile next to the bed, did he calm down a bit. He straddled Sebastian and ran his hands over his chest, rather like a masseur getting started.

Or a sculptor, getting a feel of the material before he started to carve.

Jim smoothed his hand over Sebastian’s side. “This his?” he asked darkly, thumb stroking a reddish mark.

“Yeah, but – ”

Jim bent down and bit down, hard.

Sebastian twitched and cursed. “Jesus, can’t you – be  _careful_ , he’ll notice, he’ll see, how the  _hell_ am I going to explain that?”

He closed his hand around Sebastian’s throat, eyes dark and intent. “I don’t  _care_ ,” he hissed. “He should keep his grubby paws away from you.”

“He’s my  _husband_ , you deranged fuck.” He flipped them around, landing Jim on his back. “You might not like it but that’s the way it is, so – ”

Jim took his jaw and kissed him. He followed the line of Sebastian’s jaw, mouthed at his throat, his collarbone.

“I don’t complain, do I?” Sebastian muttered, his hand in Jim’s hair. “I don’t say a word about  _yours_  and yet you never fucking shut up. I’m starting to think it’s him you want to fuck, not – ”

Jim’s hand closed over his mouth and he leaned up, hovering over Sebastian face. “I’ll kill him,” he said, soft and intent, and something that would have been an overly-dramatic threat from anyone else became dreadful cold reality in Jim’s voice. “Tear him to pieces. Make him regret ever touching you in the first place.”

Sebastian carefully peeled Jim’s hand away. “Easy,” he said, trying to sound calm, reassuring. “I know, alright? I don’t ever forget – it’s  _you_ , it’s always been just you, you know that.”

He let Jim kiss him, bite at his lip. “Really?” Jim said, with a kind of dark, barely-restrained sarcasm that meant  _danger._ “So when he’s on top of you with his hand on your cock, it’s  _me_ you’re thinking of, is it?”

Sebastian buried his heel in the mattress and levered them both around. “ _Yes_ , actually,” he growled, as Jim looked at him, his eyes dark. “You’ve got me, alright? Nothing he does matters. I’m – ” He swallowed. Jim smiled. “I’m yours,” he finished, shivering at the words.

“You are,” Jim said softly, his fingers tracing Sebastian’s face. Sebastian closed his eyes and leaned into the gentle touch. “Aren’t you?  _Mine_.”

And he grabbed Sebastian’s neck and pulled him off, pressing him face-down into the mattress. He dove down, pulled Sebastian’s hips up, his legs wide, and lowered his mouth to Sebastian’s arse.

Sebastian bit down on the pillow. It was true, nothing mattered outside of this hotel room, nothing but having Jim close, skin to skin, thoughts on nothing but Sebastian.

He might be Jim’s, but it worked the other way around as well.

***

Sherlock was standing at the window, arms crossed. The moonlight was falling into the room, giving everything a strange otherworldly halo.

“He’s mental, you know,” John said behind him. “He has nightmares. Moodswings. Times where he doesn’t do anything but scribble for hours on end, or that he just… stares into the distance. Doing nothing.”

Sherlock stared at London’s skyline. “Is he violent?”

“Well, yeah, but – I can handle that. No need to worry.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, mouth thin.  _I always worry,_ he thought of saying, which sounded dramatic but was painfully true.

But something must have shown on his face because John blinked, surprised. “Sherlock? Are you alright?”

“I think about you. You’re…” He paused, considered his words. “Distracting. I  _hate_ the idea of – ” He stopped himself.

Silence. He just wished he had some way of knowing what was going through John’s head at times like this. He was easy to read, usually, but now?

“What about Sebastian?” John asked. “Is he…”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock said curtly.

“Yeah,  _that’s_ reassuring. You’ve got bruises.”

Sherlock shrugged. “So does he. He isn’t abusive, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The bed creaked and soft footsteps padded on the carpet. John touched his shoulder. “I don’t like the idea either, you know,” he said quietly. “Of him being with you.”

“Yes, but you don’t want to kill him for touching me, do you?”

Silence, again. He looked down at John and frowned when he saw the shock on his face. “I’m sorry,” he sneered, “do my homicidal tendencies break the image of the perfect ideal husband you think I am?”

“Honestly?” John said. “I didn’t think you cared that much.”

Sherlock froze. And then he snatched John’s left hand and pulled hard at the ring, forcing it over the knuckle and throwing it in the corner with all his might.

He took John’s shoulders and pushed him against the wall, kissing him. “I  _care_ ,” he growled. “More than I should, more than would be wise, and every time he touches you I – ”

John grabbed his face and kissed him, hard. “You idiot, you complete and utter  _idiot_  – ” He kissed him again, and again, and his hand pulled eagerly at Sherlock’s belt and trousers, wriggling inside until he had his palm pressing warm against Sherlock’s cock. Part of the anger started to fade.

“He doesn’t have the bloody  _right_ ,” John muttered. “He doesn’t  _know_ you, he doesn’t – ”

“Appreciate me like you do?” Sherlock sneered. He couldn’t help it, the little push, the stab.

John froze.

And then he pushed Sherlock off. “Fuck you,” he said tiredly. “Just… fuck this.”

Sherlock watched him pace, lost in thought.

As far as partners went, Sebastian wasn’t that bad. He was more indifferent than purposely cruel, and despite their differences they had found a sort of uneasy peace together. It could have been so much worse: he could have had some nosy interfering idiot as a husband, who would never leave him a moment of peace. Someone who insisted on holding hands, on constant accountability … Really, after years of worrying about his potential future spouse, Sebastian – gruffly silent, unapologetically unsentimental, not even that interested in Sherlock – had come as a relief.

But Moriarty… Again he could feel his stomach twist at the very idea of him together with John.

He grabbed John’s arm and turned him around to face him. “I’m sorry, alright?” Sherlock snapped. “I’m – ”

He couldn’t find the right words. How he  _wanted_  John, how he hated the situation. How he had to fight not to drag John away on those rare occasions he saw him together with his husband.

So instead he pulled John close and kissed him, hard, tearing at his shirt in his hurry to get his hands on John’s skin.

Luckily the fight had left John and he reciprocated, eagerly, pulling Sherlock back to the bed and tugging his shirt over his head. They landed on the bed together, Sherlock on top.

“Careful,” John grunted. “Shoulder.”

Sherlock pulled back. Something inside of him snarled in possessive fury. “Did he – ”

“What?” John said confused. “Did who –  _oh_ , Christ no, it’s just an old war wound, nothing to worry about, alright?”

“Good.”  He went down again, cradling John’s head with his arms, kissing him violently. He could taste blood, not sure whose, and that would be hard to explain away but he didn’t care – the opposite, in fact, having John walk around with his mark was –

“Sherlock.” John pulled him off. “Sherlock,  _slow down_. We have all night, yeah? No need to rush.”

“This time,” he muttered.

“Look, can’t you just…” John sat up and ran his hand through his hair. “Switch it off for a bit? Stop thinking about what happens tomorrow, or what happened yesterday, just… This. Here. Us.”

Sherlock reached out and pulled John on top of him. “One of these days…” Sherlock said, softly.

John shuddered. The implied violence must have been audible, then. Never mind; he had a point, he should focus on John, here, now.

He pushed up, hooked a hand around John’s neck and pulled him down into a kiss, making a point of being gentler this time. He drew his hand down over John’s shoulder, his stomach, and then down to his cock, pressing down through his jeans. John moaned, his fingers tightening on Sherlock’s shoulders.

Moriarty be damned; right here, right now, John was  _his_ and nothing Moriarty did would change that.


End file.
